


Daedalus

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-30
Updated: 1999-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 01:51:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11347404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: A balcony scene, of the XF variety.





	Daedalus

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Daedalus by Dreamerlea

Daedalus  
by Dreamerlea  
A balcony scene, of the XF variety. This is a new slash path I'm treading down here, folks, so beware. <g>. If this looks familiar to you, it's because you're on the Nick-fixx list.  
Many thanks to the ever-generous Kass, for title assistance.  
For Admarem. Welcome to the Dark Side.

* * *

The door is all misty with condensation. It has obviously been a very cold, and very wet night. I don't pity him. I don't retain a shred of the concern which once allowed him to vanish from dangerous scrutiny. Then I didn't trust either Mulder or Scully, but I trusted him, and I wasn't going to let Mulder in his insanity drag him down.

But I was wrong, and I was betrayed by him, and if I have to spend every moment of the rest of my life paying that back, it won't be enough. I know the price of the paths I have chosen, and I know I will probably die for them, but so help me I'm bringing him with me.

I open the door, and instantly he is awake, and watching me, with eyes like the caged hawk. Soaked to the skin, and freezing, no doubt, and for a second I feel warm pity in my chest and that sensation which I long ago forced myself to forget. Oh, I do feel it. Damn it all, despite all my efforts, all my convincing, I still feel it.

Sitting the way he is on the balcony he's just about the right level to see how much I still feel. Dammit. And his eyes, surrounded by purple, aged more than it seems possible. This is not from the terrors of the night, I reason. This weariness has come from his years of dancing in the dark.

"Thirsty?" I ask, trying to keep my voice as cold as possible.

"Not really," he says. "And, if I am, I can always just wring out my shirt. It poured last night, you--"

"Save it, Krycek."

"You letting me in now?"

"You don't like your accomodations?"

"I've seen worse," he says, looking out over the grey city, and the thought sneaks unbidden into my head. I am *glad* that I have such a beautiful view to show him. I am one sick bastard. 

He keeps talking, and I wonder now how much of that mind I once adored remains. "Here it is all clouds and air and water. I have been buried alive. The earth is close around me always. I can't shut my eyes but see the darkness. I know now why we have made hell a place of the earth. Imprisoned here, I am close to heaven..."

"The closest you'll ever get," I say, and instantly regret it. Frightening. He is so close to destruction. There was a word for this, that I knew well. It is shellshock, for this is war of another kind.

He looks at me again, and I see the chained hawk, hooded, but as great a hunter as ever. Take the chain away and still he would soar.

"What do you have planned for the day, Walter?" he asks, and I close my eyes against him. I do not hear what he is saying, and I do not feel what those words are making me feel.

I do not feel anything for him, except for hate for what he has done. I *don't*.

"Work," I say, and I can't help but continue. "I would feed you..."

He laughs, and the sound is like the grinding of glass. "Some digs. I am imprisoned in this tower in the sky, and you bring me room service. Better watch it, I'll make wax wings and fly away."

I crouch near him. "You'll fly too high. You'll die," I say softly.

He mumbles something, and I try to convince myself that I didn't hear it. "I am already dead."

I have managed to control myself pretty well up until now, and it is a wonder I can speak past the lump in my throat. "I'll take you inside."

He looks up at me then, and his eyes are narrowed, suspicious. "For what purpose?"

He thinks me as sick as that? That I would hate him, but still have him? "Right, Krycek. I want you. You're a murderer, and a liar, and you belong to the worst piece of shit on the face of the planet, and I still want you."

I *still* want you.

My teeth are clenched so hard it's a wonder they haven't broken. I need to say something more. I need to say something quickly, because he isn't answering, and if something doesn't break this silence I'm going to pull him into my arms. And I can't do that. I can't.

"After all," I force myself to say, "you were the best fuck I ever had."

He is still silent, and thankfully, he is looking away, or he would see in my eyes that the words I spoke were the truth, and even more truthful were the ones I didn't speak.

"You don't want to be out here all day," I say, more calm now.

"I do," he says. "I'd rather not take anything from you. It makes it easier that way."

His eyes are closed as he speaks, and I stand up, wary.

"Easier to hate you as much as I should." He looks at me again, and my hands ball into fists to keep from reaching for him.

"You don't seem to have a problem with that at all, if I remember correctly." I picture that night in the stairwell, and I know he is doing the same.

He doesn't answer, and I know that the conversation is over. Damn him, he will never have it out. It's been three years now, and he won't give me the satisfaction of closure.

When I reach the door, he speaks. "Goodbye Walter."

Making those wings today? I want to ask, but what's the point? I step inside, and close the door behind me. It's a silent click. I want to pull the curtains, for the glass hides nothing.

We're not even yet, boy.

~X~

I have the weirdest dreams, I think. Inspired perhaps by the early-morning mugginess on this very different kind of West Coast.  
Love,  
Dreamer, traipsing in the Sk/K pool for no good reason whatsoever.... ;-)


End file.
